


easy as abc

by not_so_weary_pilgrim



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos being a sweetheart, Bonacieux being a dick, Brotp, Constance & Athos - Freeform, Gen, Porthos and Aramis being children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/not_so_weary_pilgrim/pseuds/not_so_weary_pilgrim
Summary: The first time Constance meets Athos, he is hungover and extremely irritable.Perhaps it is only fair to state that he is not irritable with her, rather with the cheating fishmonger at the marketplace. But at the time she is young and newly married; a grumpy, scruffy man in leathers who reeks of wine and is brandishing a rather large knife is a bit much for her to deal with.However, when he offers to help her, she has to admit there’s more to this drunk, noble-blooded ruffian than meet the eye.My take on how Constance and Athos met and formed a friendship for the ages.





	easy as abc

**Author's Note:**

> I read somewhere that European households involve going to the market daily for groceries, rather than the once-a-week big hauls that we Americans tend to favor. I apologize if that’s not correct, but it probably is a safe assumption for this time period given the lack of refrigeration.
> 
> Athos might seem OOC in this, but to my mind he’s always had a softer approach for Constance. I don’t think he ever snaps at her in the entire series; he’s just this gentle, supportive friend and I am absolutely weak for it.
> 
> This works best with the headcanon that Constance and Athos are the best brotp to ever brotp, and the headcanon that Jacques Bonacieux has always been a dick and shall forever remain one (actually, that one’s basically canon, right?)

Constance has come to savor her trips to market.

Oh, she likes being married well enough. She certainly could have done worse; Jacques might be immature and self-centered but he is not cruel, and he is still in the mental disposition of a new husband who is anxious to please his wife.

Still, there are only so many overly-flowery compliments she can take. And so she takes her basket and reassures him (five times) that she is quite able to carry it herself, and takes herself off down the street.

It’s a fine morning, brisk without being too cool; she purchases some fruits and baked goods before going to peruse the fish.

Constance is rather inexperienced in running the finances of a household, but the amount the fishmonger gives makes her wince regardless.

“It can’t be that much,” she protests. “It’s tiny.”

That cannot be disputed; the trout currently sitting on the scale will hardly feed her husband let alone herself. Embarrassment begins to tint her cheeks as she runs through her purchases again. No, she is sure she did not spend too much on the breads or fruit…only a couple of coins each…

“That’s the price, mademoiselle.” The man shrugs unsympathetically. “If you can’t pay, then – “

He takes the fish off the scale, wordlessly making his point.

The gloved hand that grabs his wrist, however, makes _its_ point even more clearly.

“Forgive me, monsieur. But I too find it ludicrously hard to believe that such a small specimen could weigh that much.”

Constance stares, perhaps a little irritated, at the stranger. He is undeniably scruffy and ill kept, but holds himself with all the manners of the highborn. With his hat so low, his eyes are hidden, but he cuts an impressive figure regardless in his leathers and assorted weaponry.

“Forgive _me_ , monsieur,” the fishmonger snaps. “But I fail to see how this is any of your business.”

“A King’s Musketeer,” the stranger takes off his hat, the better to pin his opponent with an unimpressed look, “makes it his _business_ to correct injustice wherever he sees it.”

“Injustice?” The fishmonger sputters. “Why – “

“Open its mouth.” The Musketeer interrupts with a bored voice.

The stout, sweaty little man hesitates. “I – “

“ _Now_.”

All but quivering under the Musketeer’s glare, the fishmonger obeys. Constance gapes at the lead weights that tumble out of the fish’s mouth.

“Why you – “

“Mademoiselle, please – “

“It’s madame,” she snaps. “And you’re in no position to ask anything of me. How many people have you cheated?”

“No telling.” The Musketeer lays one hand on his sword. “You will give the madame as many fish as she requires, free of charge. And if I ever hear of this again, I’ll have your stall turned into kindling.”

The fishmonger’s mouth twists in anger, but he does not protest as he puts the three large fish she’s selected (more in both count and size than is truly necessary, but she’s never claimed to be above pettiness) into her basket.

Wordlessly, the Musketeer joins her as she leaves the market. They walk for a few minutes before she works up her courage to speak.

“Thank you, Monsieur…?”

“Athos.” Automatically, he gently takes her elbow to help her sidestep a thick mud puddle. “Have you purchased from that stall before?”

“No,” she says, surprised. “But I am new to Paris. I moved here after my wedding two months ago.”

One eyebrow raises, saying much more than his voice does. “You have my congratulations, madame. But perhaps it would be wise to avoid that particular fishmonger in the future.”

She has to agree, though she can’t help but wonder if the man has just insulted her. It is difficult to tell, with his aristocratic voice and bearing. Still, he can’t be all bad if he has just helped her.

“How did you figure it out?” She asks.

Monsieur Athos raises that eyebrow again. “Perhaps a better question would be how you did _not_.”

There is no doubting the insult there, and she stops in the middle of the street. “How could I have?” she demands angrily. “He doesn’t say how much it weighs, only how many coins he needs!”

“You could not see how many weights he placed on the scale?”

“Of course I could, I’m not blind,” she snaps.

“Then could you not do the figuring and realize he was swindling you?”

Her mouth clicks shut as she realizes why he is so confused. Of course he would assume she could do the calculating, many women of her station can after all. But, as her husband is ever fond of reminding her, Constance married _up_.

As the silence wears on, Monsieur Athos seems to realize the same thing. “You were never taught to figure.”

Some small part of her appreciates how he phrases it – the fault is hardly hers, after all, if no one has ever offered to teach her. But her bruised pride focuses instead on the sympathy in his eyes.

“I don’t need your pity, monsieur.” She sniffs and lifts her skirts to avoid a pile of horse manure, walking on down the street without him.

“I do not pity you,” he says, catching her by surprise. He has rejoined her side and has completely lost his noble airs. “But I would apologize; it was ignorant of me to assume that all have been presented with the same opportunities as I have.”

At that, she looks incredulously at him. “You, a man of noble birth – no, don’t try to deny it, it’s in the very way you _breathe_ , for heaven’s sake – assumed that I was given the same education as you?”

He winces. “As I said, it was…ignorant of me. I am sorry.”

There is genuine humility in his voice, and Constance has always had a bleeding heart.

She huffs. “The fault is hardly yours, Monsieur Athos. I was taught to cook and clean and sew and take care of children. I hardly need to know anything else.”

She must not be able to quite keep the bitterness out of her tone, because he stops her in the road again with a gentle hand on her arm.

“You cannot believe that.” Monsieur Athos looks almost…indignant. “Even without the events at the market, you cannot believe that such….menial things are all you are capable of knowing.”

“Cooking a good meal is hardly menial.”

“Of course not, but when you claim it is all you need – “

“What’s the use?” she asks, irritated once again. “Where, exactly, am I going to find time to learn how to read or figure?”

His jaw actually drops. “You were not taught to _read?_ ”

Her cheeks burn. “I – I know some. My name, and my husband’s. Things like that.”

“What if any letters come to the house?”

“My husband reads them, and aloud if necessary.” She squints up at him, wondering why on earth he seems so outraged. “My circumstance is hardly unique, monsieur.”

Monsieur Athos does not respond, only stares at her in disbelief for so long that she finally sighs, and resumes her journey home.

He joins her again, and they finish their walk in silence.

She has been gone almost twice as long as usual, so she is hardly surprised when Jacques meets them halfway across the yard.

“Constance, darling,” he kisses her on the cheek, takes the basket. “I was so worried – who are you, and why have you followed my wife home?”

Constance briefly wishes she could crawl into a hole; Athos does not look the least bit worried (not that she can blame him) but in two months she has already learned that ignoring Jacques’ fits only makes them worse.

“He’s a Musketeer, Jacques.” She runs a hand soothingly over his arm. “One of the fishmongers tried to cheat me, so Monsieur Athos escorted me home safely.”

“Ah.” Jacques visibly deflates, like a hen having its feathers smoothed. “Then you have my thanks, monsieur. Will you join us for dinner?”

Discomfort flicks across Monsieur Athos’ features so quickly she would have missed it, had she not been watching. She wonders what he finds more distasteful – her ignorance or her husband’s similarities to a peacock.

“Thank you, but I would not want to intrude on the madame.”

“Nonsense,” Jacques says, not even glancing in her direction. “She’s quite a cook, you know. She’ll be happy to, won’t you dear? One more mouth can’t be too much.”

He isn’t really asking, and so she nods and smiles demurely, trying to convey with her eyes that no, she truly doesn’t mind. Monsieur Athos stares at her for a moment, before nodding briskly.

“Very well. If you insist.”

“Tonight?” Jacques finally turns to her. “That is, of course, assuming you bought enough fish for us all?”

Constance clears her throat as daintily as possible, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. Monsieur Athos, already headed back out of the yard, throws a smirk over his shoulder.

/

As it happens, the fish she selected are just enough to feed the three of them. She goes down into the cellar and gets the best wine they have; no doubt Monsieur Athos has had finer, but she doesn’t expect him to complain.

The food all turns out perfectly, as she knew it would. Cooking, as _menial_ a skill as it may be, is one of her strong suits. (Sewing is another, which Jacques has told her is what attracted him to her in the first place.)

It goes without saying that her husband expects her to be the very image of a gracious hostess. She puts on her best dress and holds her tongue throughout the meal, keeping herself busy with ensuring the men’s cups are kept full and the hearth kept warm.

At least, that is what she’s planned to do. Monsieur Athos, it seems, has other ideas.

“Madame Bonacieux, I apologize for bringing up a sore subject, however I must ask – the fishmonger did not harm you, did he?”

Constance blinks. “No, monsieur.”

“Harm you?” Jacques bristles. “Did he dare lay hands on you?”

Constance opens her mouth to assure him that no such thing happened, but their guest cuts in smoothly.

“He had hold of her wrist when I stepped in. I sorely regret that I was not fast enough to prevent it.”

Utterly confused, Constance frowns down at her plate.

“Darling.” Jacques takes her hand. “You didn’t say a thing.”

 _That’s because the filth never touched me_ , she thinks. But she glances up at Monsieur Athos and he gives her a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

And for some nonsensical reason, she finds herself going along with whatever it is he’s plotting.

“It didn’t even leave a mark,” she says soothingly, patting her husband’s hand. “In any case, it didn’t affect me at all while I was preparing dinner.”

“I suppose,” Jacques still looks miffed. “Still, I’m afraid to allow you to go to market alone anymore.”

That, apparently, is precisely the opening Monsieur Athos was waiting for.

“I would be happy to offer my services.”

Both Constance and her husband turn to stare.

“Surely that would be an…an intrude on your time, monsieur.”

Jacques narrows his eyes. “I should think I am capable of safely escorting my own wife.”

“Of course, monsieur,” Monsieur Athos says smoothly. “I merely was thinking of your business, and how difficult it will be to find time to escort your wife to market in between seeing clients.”

Jacques pauses, considers, and preens a bit at how prosperous this Musketeer is obviously assuming his business to be.

Constance hastily wipes her mouth with her napkin.

“I…suppose the idea has merit.” He squints again. “And you are certain your captain will allow you this time away from your duties just to escort a woman to market?”

Her amusement vanishes; how anyone could be smothering her in worry one moment and casting her aside as _a woman_ the next…

“A Musketeer is held to the highest code of chivalry and honor.” Athos quirks an eyebrow. “What better way to show that than to ensure the safety of a lady?”

He is speaking to Jacques, but he glances at Constance.

“Provided, of course, that you do not mind the company, Madame.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Jacques scoffs, sipping his wine.

Something in Monsieur Athos’ green eyes flashes.

“I would be grateful, monsieur,” Constance says quickly.

Her assurance satisfies him, and he nods before asking for more wine.

/

The very next morning, Monsieur Athos is waiting at the gate, looking no less grumpy and still smelling of wine.

She doesn’t let him take her basket, though he doesn’t act offended the way Jacques does.

“Why did you do it?” she asks immediately, making no attempts at coyness. If she is to spend her mornings in the company of a scruffy, grumpy man who stinks of wine she deserves to know why.

By way of answer, he pulls a small, battered book out of his doublet and holds it out to her.

She frowns at him; surely he has not already forgotten that she hasn’t a hope of knowing what it says. But she thumbs through the pages anyway, and her heart thuds when she realizes by way of pictures and the size of the letters what it is she’s looking at.

“Monsieur – “

“Just Athos will do,” he waves an unconcerned hand. “Madame, I apologize for the high-handed manner in which I secured my place at your side each morning. But to my mind, the best way to insure yesterday’s occurrence does not repeat itself is to equip _you_ to handle it in the future.”

Abruptly, she realizes she has stopped walking in the middle of the road. Athos looks at her calmly and waits for her to put her muddled thoughts into words.

“You…you convinced my husband that I needed an armed escort to market, so that you could teach me to read?”

“And figure,” he adds blandly. He lowers his head to examine his boots, but all the nonchalance and gruffness in the world cannot hide the concerned kindness she sees in his expression.

It takes several moments before she can speak again.

“I…I am not sure how to thank you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” he says quickly. “Shall we begin?”

/

Athos, Constance quickly discovers, is not lavish in his praise. But, neither is he cruel – instead he walks the line of both firm and kind, and she comes to appreciate it. She is not left wondering which skill in which she needs more practice, but she is also confident that she is improving.

That does not mean, of course, that it all comes very easily to her.

One particularly bad morning has her slamming the book shut. At some point during their walks, Athos started carrying her basket, and keeps one hand on her elbow to guide her through the streets so that she can focus solely on her reading. When she huffs irritably, mortified to feel her throat go tight in frustrated tears, he gently tugs her to a stop.

“This is not a matter of ability, but rather opportunity.”

Constance blinks up at him.

“I learned to read as a small child, when it is easier for anyone to learn such things. What took me years to perfect you have already mastered in six weeks.”

That is bordering on obscene praise, coming from him. She ducks her head to hide more tears, this time born of relief and gratitude.

Athos gently tugs the book from her grasp and puts it away inside his doublet.

“How did you and your husband meet?”

For a moment, she is surprised. Athos has never been one for small talk. But then she realizes he is offering a distraction, and a respite for her frazzled mind. When he offers his arm, she takes it and squeezes a little in gratitude.

“My father has a friend who is money lender here in Paris. He knew of Bonacieux and that my parents were looking for a good match for me.”

“Where is your family?”

“My parents farm outside of Toulouse.”

Athos glances over at her, and she can see how his eyes trace the signs of her youth. “And you are all alone here, save for your husband.”

Constance remembers the first days after she was wed, how terrifying that very thought had seemed to be. But now she smiles, and squeezes his arm again.

“Not really, though.”

She hopes it doesn’t offend him; they are from such different worlds but she likes to think these quiet morning walks have made them friends. She is not sure what else to call him if he is not willing to be at least that much.

To her relief, he graces her with one of his half-smiles. It warms his eyes regardless of how small it is.

“No,” he says softly. “I suppose not.”

/

She is not the only one to have bad days.

He reeks of wine and tavern, every morning without fail. It stops bothering her after the first two days because for all his consistent intoxication, Athos remains a complete gentleman. And his wit is ever present, dry and sharp and it makes her laugh when she least expects to.

That does not make her forget that whatever it is that is driving him to the bottle is probably something he does not wish to speak of. So she holds her tongue and learns her letter and figures, determined not to judge her first friend here in Paris by the only thing that helps him escape his demons.

Matters are taken quite out of her hands, however, when a loud knock on the door nearly startles Jacques out of his chair. Constance was crouched over the heart, stoking the fire on this unseasonably chilly night, and she nearly toppled over into the flames.

“Who would dare – “ Jacques mutters, bustling over and wrenching the door open.

He jumps back immediately, to escape Athos landing on his foot.

“My apologies,” the Musketeer slurs, rolling onto his back. “I thought your door might have a better chance of remaining upright than myself.”

His pronunciation isn’t as bad as it could be, she supposes. But for all he has always smelled of wine, now it is as though he has crawled inside the bottle itself.

“Athos,” she exclaims, kneeling by his head and checking for injuries. “What in heaven’s name have you done to yourself?”

One green eye opens blearily. “Madame Bonacieux. Forgive the intrusion, but I found myself in need of a rest and your dwelling was closest.”

Something pricks behind her eyes when she hears the shame coloring his voice. If only he knew that she understands his need to escape the pain, even if she does not know what it is that haunts him.

She knows without asking that he does not want to be coddled, so she sniffs and taps him firmly on the shoulder.

“Come along, Athos. Up you get.” She tugs on his arm, only to have hers seized in a firm grip.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” Jacques demands, scandalized. “We cannot allow a drunken man to stay under our roof!”

Constance has thus far remained a meek and dutiful wife, but his obvious disdain for the man on the floor sets her blood boiling.

“Either he gets the guest room, Jacques, or I walk him back to the garrison. I’m not about to shut him out in the cold all by himself in this state, not when he’s been good to us.”

Her husband blinks, entirely unaccustomed to the steely edge of her voice (and, till now, unaware that it even existed at all).

“I – oh, very well then. I suppose a soldier must be allowed his liberties.”

Constance bites her tongue hard to keep from saying anything more; if Athos is the kind of man to indulge in drink simply for the sake of a carefree existence, she’ll eat her hat.

She does, however, sharply tell her husband to remove his hands from Athos when he seems content to drag the man up the stairs by the ankles. Instead she bends, and with a great deal of fuss and panting, gets her friend more or less on his feet. She is taking most of his weight but they manage the stairs without incident regardless, and she carefully helps him sit down on the bed.

Jacques hovers, disapproving, in the doorway, but Constance takes her time in removing Athos’ pistol and main gauche. His sword is nowhere to be found, and she can only hope he left it at the garrison. His hat by some miracle has made through the evening unscathed, though his boots are stained with who knows what. She wrinkles her nose when she tugs them off and sets them in a corner.

“You are a kind woman,” Athos mumbles. She huffs and wrestles him out of his doublet, hanging the etched leather carefully over a chair.

“And you, Athos, are a very drunk man at present. Go to sleep.”

When all he does is stare glassily at the floor, she rolls her eyes and gives him a gentle shove. The breath leaves him in a whoof when he hits the pillow.

“You are a kind woman,” he repeats, pulling his legs up onto the bed and curling on his side. “But also very bossy.”

“All the kindest women are,” she says airily, draping the blanket over him and snuffing out the candle.

“Thank you,” she hears murmured from the bed. She smiles and shuts the door behind her, not bothering to respond because she is quite sure he is already asleep.

/

The next morning, Athos appears for breakfast after Jacques has already left for the day.

Constance can tell from one glance at him that he is mortified over the events of the night before; she says nothing and busies herself getting his food onto the table.

For a while she thinks he is not going to say anything about it either, but halfway through his meal he sighs and sets down his fork.

“Madame, I must beg your forgiveness. I should never have come here in that condition.”

She raises one eyebrow, her hands busy kneading bread dough. “I have three older brothers, Athos. Do you really think I have never seen a drunk man before?”

“That is not the point,” he says gruffly. “I – my comrades tell me that I become surly and unpleasant when I am into my cups. More so than usual, at least,” he amends. “If I spoke out of turn or…or even became violent – “

Her heart twinges again, for Athos is not apologizing for the sake of his pride but rather for any possible offense done to her that he may not remember. She wants to thump him on the head but it is likely still aching and her hands are covered in flour besides. She settles for a huff of exasperation.

“Athos, you don’t need to apologize for anything. You were actually quite well-mannered.”

He blinks in surprise; this is obviously the last thing he expected to hear. “I was?”

“Well, you said I was bossy,” she says pertly, smoothing the loaves carefully and wiping her hands on a clean rag.

“Ah.” He regards the water in his cup with a tiny twist of his mouth. “So I was an honest drunk rather than a mean one.”

She swats him with the rag; he does not laugh but his shoulders are not as tense, and conversation flows easier than it ever has before.

/

Their friendship continues to blossom in its own riot of spring, regardless of the autumn and then winter cold.

In the early days, if she figured a sum incorrectly, he stepped in and ensured the merchants did not cheat her. (It was startling to learn how many dishonest ones are there.)

Eventually, though, his assistance is no longer needed; he retreats to standing behind her and wordlessly, vaguely threatening everyone who looks at her cross-eyed. He also carries her basket and parcels, and does not offer one syllable of protest to carrying her ribbons and flowers, on a morning when she has a little extra money.

The only downside is Jacques. Despite her quickly expanding knowledge of finances and how to handle them, he remains adamant that her place is in the kitchen and not settled before the fire with the account books. Constance snaps her teeth shut against the angry barb she wants to throw, and even intentionally burns dinner. And at the end of the night she ignores her grandmother’s advice and goes to bed angry.

That of course means that she rises angry, too, and Athos does not even get the book out when he sees her furrowed brow when she comes outside.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she mutters, nearly tearing her shawl as she marches out of the courtyard. “Just a mule headed husband.”

A gentle hand on her elbow stops her short.

“Did he harm you?”

She is startled by the anger and concern in his expression. “No.”

“Constance.” His tone is firm, and she is abruptly aware that he has never said her Christian name before.

“He didn’t, Athos. I promise.” She squeezes his hand. “He would never.”

He doesn’t believe the last bit, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t remark upon it. “Then what has he done?”

“I told him I’d learned figuring, so I could help with the ledgers. And he said it wasn’t my place, that he married me to keep the house and put food on the table.”

Athos’ expression does not change. “He’s a fool.”

Constance has always known that Athos is not fond of her husband, but this is the first time he has vocalized it. She looks up at him, startled.

He shakes his head. “As if your mind were inferior because the body beneath it is different than his own. No, Constance, he is a fool and he is likely aware of it, somewhere deep within his soul. And he seeks to make himself feel smarter and stronger than he is by belittling those he believes to be beneath him.”

She is not sure why, but hearing her husband’s faults laid out so plainly takes all the wind out of her sails. She sighs.

“It’s not so bad,” she admits. “At least I like cooking. It would be truly awful if I hated it.”

Athos nods. “Still, do not let him make you forget all you have learned in such a short time.”

She brightens at that – she now reads almost as well as Athos does, and her figuring is seldom wrong. Quite suddenly she realizes that she has never thanked him.

“I don’t know if I ever would have learned, if you had not treated me like I’ve got some sense and am not just a pretty face.”

Athos rolls his eyes. “Constance, you are one of precisely four people in Paris that I would trust with my life, and you are far and _above_ the most sensible of all of them.”

A Musketeer’s trust is no small thing to have; she blinks in surprise and tries to hide how much that statement has moved her. “I – only four?”

“Two of my comrades and my captain.” He scoffs fondly. “Aramis tries to woo every skirt that passes him. Porthos I have personally seen run into the midst of a brawl with a pastry in one hand because he didn’t want to set it down, lest someone else should eat it. And Treville…well, he can be sensible but he is also exasperatingly stubborn.”

“They sound like good men.” His annoyed tone does nothing to disguise the affection he obviously holds for these three fellow soldiers of his.

“They are,” he admits with a wry smile. “But you are still much more sensible than they.”

“I’m flattered,” she laughs, her foul mood vanished like the morning mist.

The pleasant mood lasts throughout their trip, but when he leaves her at the gate after they return Jacques is in the yard. Athos’ face hardens a little as he tips his hat.

“Monsieur,” he says coolly.

“Thank you, Athos,” Jacques bustles over importantly to take Constance’s basket.

She immediately wants to dig a hole in the dirt and crawl inside. Athos probably was raised having people like Jacques wait on him hand and foot, and here her husband is, addressing the man as if he is a scullery boy.

Athos, of course, does not seem remotely offended; his eyes flick to her and amusement twists in one corner of his mouth when he sees her mortification.

“I am happy to be of service. I shall see you on the morrow, Madame.” He gives Jacques one last measured look before disappearing.

/

That afternoon, a parcel is delivered to the house, addressed to her. Inside are jars and sachets of spices – beautiful, rich, aromatic spices, most of which she has never even heard of. Constance is almost afraid to use them.

“What on earth – “ Jacques bristles. Constance ignores him, having just found the note.

_A selfish gift, I’m afraid. I have benefitted from the Madame’s cooking enough to know that she would likely make a plateful of dirt appealing; however, she has mentioned that she enjoys her work in the kitchen and I thought these would bring her some pleasure (and if she has any new dishes to flaunt and should wish to take pity on a soldier who is accustomed to food served and prepared by a man affectionately dubbed Serge, she will not hear any complaints on the matter.)_

_-A_

Athos will not hear one word of thanks for the gift, though it surely cost him a fortune especially in the winter months when imports are hard to come by. Many of her new spices come from colonies in the New World, and she is now continuously puzzling together which flavors will work best together. Jacques endures her experiments with better spirits than she expected, though when he has to travel out of Paris for business she hears him mutter about enjoying _good, traditional French cooking for once_.

She packs his trunk and kisses him goodbye, regardless, and then spends the rest of the afternoon puttering about in the kitchen. Days like this, with no pressing matters of house or business and with Jacques gone, are few and hard to come by, and she is determined to make the most of it.

When her masterpiece is done, she wraps the still hot dish in a towel and hurries through the cold to the Musketeer’s garrison. Her bravado fades a bit when she ventures through the gate and several men stop their sparring to gawk. She’s on the verge of turning around and forgetting the whole business when a voice calls out to her.

“Good evening, madame. Are you looking for someone?”

The Musketeer offers a friendly smile, doffing his hat. His companion, enormously tall and broad, would terrify her were it not for the way his eyes are riveted on the dish in her hands with the concentration of a child with sweets.

“Er – yes. I am looking for the Musketeer Athos.”

“Athos?” The first Musketeer blinks, and then grins. “Why, you must be Madame Bonacieux, the woman he’s begged off morning duty for the past several months to see!”

Something about the way he says it makes her frown. “He’s been teaching me to read and figure, so the merchants can’t cheat me.”

The Musketeer’s teasing smirks fades into something infinitely fonder. “Yes, that sounds like something he would do.”

The other Musketeer calls over for one of the stable boys to fetch Athos, and then turns to give her a proper smile. “I’m Porthos.”

“And I am Aramis,” the first one says, sweeping into a gallant bow.

Constance can only stare. “You’re the one who flirts with every woman he sees!”

Aramis blinks in surprise, and stumbles when Porthos shoves him with an almighty guffaw.

“And you,” she says, turning to the big man. “You’re the one who likes to eat.”

“Won’t deny that,” he says with a boyish grin.

“I think _every woman_ is a bit – “ Aramis starts to say, only to be interrupted.

“Madame Bonacieux,” Athos looks surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “What brings you here?”

“I…well, my husband is away on business, and I thought I should share the spices you gave me. I hope not to offend Monsieur Serge, though.”

Porthos sniggers. “ _Monsieur_ Serge?”

“He will not mind,” Athos says quickly, glaring at his friends, and gestures for her to precede him up the stairs. On the balcony stands a man who looks very accustomed to scowling, but he gives her a smile of genuine kindness when Athos introduces him.

“Madame, this is Captain Treville.”

“Ah.” She smiles up at him. “The sensible but stubborn one.”

The Captain’s eyebrows shoot upwards. “I’ll accept that.”

“Hang on,” Aramis blusters, and Constance is not surprised to find he and Porthos have followed them up here. “I’m a flirt and he gets sensible but stubborn?”

“Yes.” Athos politely ushers her inside what she figures is the Captain’s office, though there is a table and chairs gathered round it. There are already plates, and Athos hurries to fetch some wine and cups from a chest in the corner. The others watch his haste with ill-disguised amusement.

“One might think you’ve not eaten all day,” the Captain says dryly, though his eyes light up when Constance uncovers the dish.

“You’ve clearly not had her cooking before,” Athos responds, and it makes Constance smile fondly as she dishes them each out a portion.

Porthos moans. “Is that wha’ I think it is?”

“Cassoulet,” she says fondly. She was raised on the dish, though her husband has turned his nose at it more than once, deeming it peasant food. Judging from the rapt gazes from her dinner guests, that sentiment will not be found here.

“Knew a lady, ran a tavern up by La Havre. She served somethin’ like this ev’ry night. Thought I was in heaven.” Porthos sits down and doesn’t even wait for everyone to be served before taking a bite.

“You weren’t lying about him,” she mutters to Athos. He smirks, and then turns his attention to his plate.

For several loud moments there is only the sound of cutlery and chewing; Athos takes a long dreg of wine and looks her in the eye.

“You have outdone yourself, Madame.”

Constance goes pink to the roots of her hair when the other three pull their heads out of their plates long enough to echo him.

“You can’t tell anyone else about this,” Aramis declares, helping himself to seconds.

“Why not?” Constance frowns.

He looks at her incredulously. “Because if they know you cook like this, the next time you bring us food we’ll have to _share_.”

Porthos actually grumbles menacingly, though he still doesn’t look up from his plate.

Treville nods. “If this is the thanks we get for Athos escorting you to market, he can have every morning off until he retires.”

/

She half expects Porthos or Aramis to start barging in on their morning walks, but it continues to be just her and Athos. He does at least bring them with him to dinner on occasion, though they clearly hound him into doing so just to taste her cooking again. She does not mind the company of the other two, truly – Aramis is a golden soul, full of faith and passion, and Porthos is as respectful and mannerly as they come. But part of her is glad that those mornings are still just for her and her first friend in Paris.

Until one morning, he stops by long enough to tell her he has been given a mission.

“I am sorry,” he says. “But a Musketeer has gone missing and we must find him.”

Constance understands, of course she does. It’s remarkable this hasn’t happened yet in the nearly two years that he’s been doing this for her. She sends him on his way with admonitions for them all to be careful, and takes herself off to market alone.

She’s perusing the fish when a rough hand grabs her wrist; startled and off balance, she tries to hear what they’re saying. She manages to hear the offer of money in exchange for…a kiss? Surely not, he wouldn’t dare –

/

(As it turns out, he _would_ dare; Constance laughs herself to tears when, after their brief honeymoon, Athos learns of how her and d’Artagnan met. Porthos and Aramis tease him mercilessly over deserting her on the one morning she actually needed his protection. Her new husband only smirks and kisses her, and the other three bemoan the loss of her cooking. But Constance remembers the fond smile and press on her hand when Athos escorted her down the aisle, and knows that d’Artagnan or no, she has found friends here in the city far from home that will never leave her side.)

**Author's Note:**

> I am physically incapable of writing anything less than two thousand words I am so sorry.
> 
> Also I’ve got a Musketeers multichap in the works, if you’re interested. I hope to have it polished up and posted sometime this spring.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Please review.


End file.
